Apart from that, things will be a bit silent for a while as I say goodbye to my family home.
Mr Milk is turning into a regular Nigel Slater. This month a la carte de famille du Lait: Chicken saag with homemade dahl, pan fried chicken livers with a balsamic reduction, roasted loin of pork with braised cabbage and crispy lardons. Yeah a bit poncy, but bloody delicious all the same. He’s even started making things up. When my cupboard’s bare (no naughty symbolism intended) i reach out for Mr Heinz’s finest green tin. When Mr Milk’s cupboard is bare he does some kind of dinner arithmetic and lo and behold a creation is born. Soon he’ll be sprinkling salt from a ludicrously high altitude with or without the Ainsley Harriott camp backward stablising hand, buying a 3ft pepper cellar to display his manliness, treating frying onions like a pancake, all shuffle shuffle toss and describing a dish as “the closest to a warm cuddle you can get with food”.
Meanwhile Mrs Milk is busy making the kids meals. Shepherd’s pie, sausages, pasta, casserole. No salt, no herbs (green things, ugh), no spices and definitely no wine based reductions, poaching, frittering or anything remotely resembling a ganache or a honey glaze.
It’s just all a bit too bloody stereotypical.
The thing is, once Mr Milk is home i’ve already cooked once and i’m *cked if i’m going to cook again. i don’t find it relaxing. It’s not how i choose to unwind. So he takes over, does all the grown up cooking, and before you know what’s happened he’s sous cheffing at l’Escargot while i’m working the grill at the local tesco’s cafe.
So all that practise and ponsing is well and truly starting to pay off, and much to my dismay the irritating stereotypes are starting to play themselves out in the Milk household.
Do men naturally make better chefs? No. They’re just more likely to get the practise in. *shock horror* woman takes on household chores while husband gets to ponse about with tools.
(Footnote: Mr Milk does of course do his fair share of the ironing, cleaning and kidlet ferrying…. everything else is subject to our standard terms and conditions, please read the footnotes with any accompanying literature, don’t ring now or your vote might be charged but not count, blah blah blah, bum cover bum cover….)
(a few gripes about “liquids” and things)
Why can’t men wee in the right place? I mean they’ve been blessed with the anatomical equivalent of a super charged water gun, so where exactly is the problem? It’s either all over the floor and seat. Or in the wardrobe.
Ok, so i’m mainly talking about my sons (the floor) but my husband is about the only grown up man i know that has never weed in a wardrobe (to my knowledge anyhow). In the case of a good friend (no names) he was partial to a wee in his girlfriend’s shoes. Ok, it was when he was drunk. But if you’re going to bother to wee into something, surely it might as well be the toilet. Otherwise, the floor is just as good. Or bad. If you see what i mean.
And why don’t men notice things? It’s not as if they even just walk straight PAST things without noticing. They can walk through, in or even OVER things. Put a dirty nappy in their path through the front door, sat just waiting to be put out, and they’ll step over it. Carefully, so as not to squidge out its contents. And when you ask them “Did you not see that nappy waiting to go out” they’ll say “What nappy?”.
And empty cartons of milk put back in the fridge. Sorry, let’s rephrase that. Put back with “s-o-m-e left”, if you count enough for a bumble bee bidet as a useable portion.
And toilet rolls. How do they manage to leave just enough to wipe a badger’s arse, but certainly not mine. The last bit that’s always stuck solid to the loo roll. “But there’s s-o-m-e left”. Here we go again. So they don’t bin it. How considerate.
They’re also pretty economical at finding space in a bin bag.
Christ. In hindsight what am i complaining about? Their super-economy, non-wasteful activities are positively laudible. They’ll be saving the planet right there.
To be fair i’m pretty sure it’s not all purposeful cheek. They really just don’t seem to register.
Actually, I watched a documentary once that tried to argue this point, backing it up with quasi-scientific (that’s “fabricated” to me and you) evidence. Women are programmed to notice detail, men are not. That’s why we are more naturally suited to the domestic.
No really, they did try to argue that.
Oh well, it’s not all bad. At least it means they believe you when you tell them you’ve had that pair of shoes since, like, F-O-R-E-V-E-R, when you prance out for a night on the town with a brand new pair of (non sale) jimmy choo shoes.
(Yeah, okay, who am i kidding? Dorothy Perkins with the labels still intact)
Still, it’s like pulling the wool over the just opened, watery eyes of a tiny baby lamb. Ahhh.